


paved with good intentions

by cordiewrites



Series: good intentions verse [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archivist Martin Blackwood, Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-typical Miscommunication, Gen, M/M, Temporary Character Death, as in: accidental nonconsensual compulsion and almost taking statements from strangers, canon-atypical communication, does it count as canon divergence if the point it diverges from is before canon starts, for a given value of ending considering this is only a part of a larger au, martin has a bad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27601355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordiewrites/pseuds/cordiewrites
Summary: When Martin took the job as Head Archivist, he really, truly only wanted to help. He really thought he could.Maybe that was his first mistake. Maybe there was no helping others in this world.(Or maybe you could only help others if you let yourself be helped first.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: good intentions verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017891
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	paved with good intentions

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in a single six-hour sitting with one (1) small break in the middle to go to home depot, finished it, had dinner, then came back and edited it. and by edited i mean added 300 words. i also didn't plan anything out beforehand aside from some vague ideas of where things are going. so that's why this is.. like this
> 
> important to note: this isn't just a jon-martin swap! it's not a complete every character is switched au like some others, but there are a few important switches. the whole s1 archives crew is shuffled around (though i think it's apparent early on who's who), and while there are a few more swaps in the full au, the only other one relevant to this fic is that georgie and melanie are swapped. it also, for the most part, doesn't change people's backstories, though there are a couple of changes here and there.

It started, of course, with Naomi Herne.

Of course it did. Where else could it have started? From the very first moment Martin smiled at her, handed her a cup of tea as he led her into his office and shut the door behind, they were both doomed.

In the library, Martin rarely interacted with the statement givers. After close to a decade working there he had managed to work his way up from just shelving books, even with his lack of a degree in library science (and unbeknownst to his coworkers his lack of a degree _at all),_ to, well, shelving books, but also assisting the Institute researchers and grad students and university professors who made use of the library, helping them find what they needed. But this still put him several degrees of separation between the actual statement givers, the public, the people who came to the Institute because they were scared and confused and wanted to know what had happened to them.

But from what he had heard, old Gertrude Robinson had never been particularly kind to the statement givers. She mostly just set her assistants on them, made them write down their statements under supervision—and, oh, wasn’t that just the loneliest way of telling someone your story, sitting there under the cold office lights and writing it down as someone watched you?—and often wasn’t even there herself. Maybe it made it easier, more efficient, but Martin couldn’t help but feel like it was a shame. The archives department had the most chance of directly helping the people who came in, and they didn’t even use it to make them feel better. Didn’t give them a kind ear or anything.

It was a shame. Martin knew exactly how it felt to be on the other end of it; not knowing what had just happened to you, alone, afraid, desperate for any kind of explanation, any kind of comfort. He hadn’t even known about the Magnus Institute, at the time, hadn’t had _anyone_ to go to for help. And for Gertrude to just… brush these people off? It wasn’t right. Martin had spent a lot of time daydreaming about taking over for her, after she retired, about being the Head Archivist and providing statement givers with comfort, with tea and biscuits, with a listening ear, with a shoulder to cry on and support and explanations. (And about fixing the mess down there, honestly, he’d been down there maybe two or three times but each time had made his librarian heart shudder, but that was besides the point.) But he would never be the Head Archivist, even if Gertrude retired, and that was a big if; he wasn’t qualified in the slightest, and even his fake cover-story wasn’t qualified to be the Head Archivist. It was just a pleasant daydream.

It was supposed to just be a pleasant daydream.

And yet, here he was.

Anyways, Naomi Herne. It started with her, this web he’d started weaving to help but ended up strangling himself with. She told her story to him, over the tape recorder and the mug of tea (he pretended not to notice how it had gone cold much, much too soon in her hands as she recounted her tale), and his heart panged in sympathy and in recognition. Her description of the fog, the loneliness, the empty field and the open graves, the terror that filled her, it all hit way too close to home, making him remember that day in the hospital years and years ago, the one he’d tried so hard to forget.

So when she was done, when she was shaking in the plush chair he’d requested to replace the old threadbare one that’d been there before (in lieu of a new chair of his own; the statement givers’ company had been his first priority when he’d received his small budget to give the archives a bit of freshening up, followed by that of his assistants, and if that meant he had to go without, well, that was fine by him), he gave her as comforting a smile as he could muster. “That sounds absolutely dreadful, Miss Herne,” he says gently. “And—well, let me extend my sympathies to you about your fiancé, as well. I can’t imagine going through something like that, on top of grieving.”

Well. That was technically true. He didn’t _have_ to imagine it, because he basically had gone through that exact thing. But she didn’t need to know that.

“So you believe me?” she said, sounding uncertain.

Martin nodded decisively. “Of course I do,” he said, and she let out a shaking sigh of relief, sagging against the chair. “I wouldn’t be here, if I didn’t.” He hesitated, for a long moment, before adding in a softer voice, “I actually… went through something a bit similar, if you’ll believe it. Around the time when… Well, that’s not important. But the fog, the isolation, the fear—I’ve been through it, and I’ve read some accounts of others who have, as well. You’re not crazy, Miss Herne, and you’re certainly not alone.”

Naomi looked a little taken aback, at his admission, and she looked over at him with wide eyes. “How did you…” She swallowed thickly. “...How did you get through it? You seem so…” Trailing off, she apparently couldn’t think of the word, just biting her lip.

“Honestly?” Martin said, “Therapy. Lots of it. It took a few years to find one who took what I went through seriously and could actually help me, but once I did, well—it got better.” Naomi nodded, though she looked uncertain, and he paused to shuffle papers around on his desk, looking for something. “Actually, I prepared a list of resources and potential therapists in advance,” he said. “Somewhere around here. _Not_ because I thought you might be crazy,” he assured her as her expression started to grow more guarded again, “but because when you go through a traumatic event like this, well, it can be helpful to talk to someone, someone _qualified_ to help you through trauma. The Institute will look into whatever it was that—that—attacked you, but we’re not exactly mental health experts.” She nodded again, the suspicion leaving her face. “Here we go.”

The list he handed her was one page, front and back, with information, websites, and contact info for therapists he trusted to be believing of the supernatural, or, at the very least, not belittle their client for believing. Some of them were ones he’d been to himself, who were perfectly nice people and good therapists, but not the right fit for him; others were ones his current therapist had recommended when he’d brought the idea up with her at one of his sessions shortly after accepting the promotion. (He’d put this list together long before getting his first statement giver, and had already given it out to the few who’d come before Naomi—although, those people’s statements had recorded digitally, and he was already learning to grow suspicious of the ones that didn’t need to go on tape. Naomi’s was the first one he really thought might be real, so he was glad that she took the paper, scanned it over, and then folded it up to put in her purse with a grateful smile.)

“The other thing I’d recommend,” he said, “is reaching out to someone. I know you said you thought your friends were more Evan’s than yours, and I know it might feel better to self-isolate, but I think the last thing you should do right now is be alone. I know I would’ve been much worse off after, if I hadn’t reached out to a friend.” Melanie’s surprise when he called her for the first time since high school had been audible, but he didn’t regret doing it, not at all; she’d been a good friend in the years since, and he wouldn’t have gotten through it all without her. Even if she incessantly teased him for getting in over his head for his lies on his CV. “Do you have anyone you could reach out to? Even just one person?”

Naomi’s hesitance was tangible in the room. “I… I’m not sure,” she said. “Evan’s friends… they’re nice, but…”

Martin nodded, considering. “...Try anyway, maybe? I’m sure they’re grieving just as much as you, and will be glad to hear from you. If you’re uncomfortable with that, maybe look into getting a roommate, or a pet, if they’re allowed where you live.” Another pause, and then he continued, “In the meantime…”

And then he said the thing that would damn him for eternity, though it seemed utterly innocuous at the time. “...would you mind if I checked up on you now and again? Just to see how you’re doing?”

And Naomi paused, and smiled awkwardly, and said, “Sure. I’d like that, I… I think.”

They exchanged contact information and pleasantries, he assured her the Institute would get in touch if they found anything, she thanked him for listening and for the advice, and they said goodbye with promises to check in again next week sometime. All the while neither of them knowing what their exchange has just set into motion.

The next live statements—at least, the next live statements that Martin thinks of as true (if guiltily, because he knows it’s rude to discount someone’s story just because it records digitally, but the more he reads the more certain he is that only the ones that go on tape are real)—are both from within his own staff. Sasha’s relentless curiosity bit her in the rear end when she got stuck in her apartment for two weeks—two weeks!—by Jane Prentiss, and oh, didn’t Martin just feel so _guilty_ for letting that go on for so long. Not that he would’ve been able to do anything if he had followed his instincts and gone to check on her, he’d probably have just ended up eaten by worms, but that still might be better than the guilt of letting her be trapped. She was staying in Tim’s apartment, now, after a couple days sleeping in the archives cot (which he hadn’t approved being there, _Jon,_ you _know_ you don’t need to stay _overnight,_ I don’t give you _that_ much work) while Tim acquired a pull-out couch, but the guilt still remained.

Tim, on the other hand, he’d at least _known_ was going into danger, since Tim had explained his encounter with Michael in the cafe before going to the graveyard. Martin didn’t _like_ it, but it wasn’t like there was anything he could do to stop him. And when he returned, alive and mostly unharmed and with a statement to give and a way to defeat the worms, well. Martin supposed he couldn’t help but be grateful, even as he admonished Tim for jumping into danger. Tim insisted he’d never been in danger, because he’d charmed Michael with his excellent people skills, but considering that Tim had mentioned Michael’s insistence it wasn’t a _person_ in his statement, Martin wasn’t sure he believed him.

But those two instances aside, it was a while before Martin’s next real live statement, and Georgie Barker was… well. She was something else.

She was Jon’s friend from uni, apparently, which had been surprising considering Martin and the other assistants had never even heard so much of a hint that he had a social life. It was not surprising in that she was a lot like Jon, in some ways—aloof, cold, clinical. (Later, much, much later, when they worked side by side to stop the end of the world and she was ready to make another statement, she would admit that she hadn’t always been like that, that once she had been fiery and passionate and loving, that what she had encountered that night had killed some essential part of her and she didn’t know how to bring it back to life. That it would make her afraid, if she still had the capacity to feel that; that it would make her regretful for how she treated Jon in the years since, if she still could be regretful. But later wasn’t now, and now Martin had no idea of any of that, and just that she was a lot like Jon had been, at the beginning, before tea and nights out together and worms and fear had made him open up a bit.)

Jon had been trying to persuade her to come in to make a statement for a while, she said, he said something about the new Head Archivist being really nice to talk to (which set off butterflies in his stomach which didn’t go away for the rest of the week), but she wasn’t sure she was ready to open up about what he wanted her to, so she had come to make a statement about something she’d encountered while researching for her YouTube show, _What the Ghost._ Martin commiserated with her, and expressed pleasant surprise that she was also friends with Melanie—small world—through Melanie’s own podcast, and reacted to her dry, clinical attitude towards what happened by showing her sympathy and comfort and providing his list of resources, same as always. And at the end, he asked, “Would you mind if I checked in on you, every now and again? See how you’re doing, give you any updates we have? I know you’ve got Jon, so I don’t really need to, but I like to check on the people who give statements here.” 

And Georgie shrugged and said, “I don’t see why not,” and Martin drove another nail in his own coffin.

And another nail was Dr. Lionel Elliot, who was panicked and afraid of what he’d endured, who Martin met with gentle patience and a steadfast belief in his words, same as he always did, who Martin gave his resources to and kept in touch with afterwards; not that they had many updates, just the follow-up research Jon and Tim and Sasha had done and the results of a few diagnostic tests Artifact Storage had run on the apple, but Dr. Elliot just seemed comforted by the reminder that there was someone who had listened, who had believed him, that what he had seen wasn’t crazy or impossible, that it had happened.

Sometimes, that’s all people needed. A reminder that what they went through was _real._ Martin knew that feeling well enough, and was content to be that reminder and whatever else they needed from him.

In this way, Martin started his little network of survivors of crazy experiences. Naomi Herne got a new roommate who she opened up to about what had happened; that roommate had gone through a supernatural experience of her own, something about being trapped in a basement with walls that closed in until they choked her and buried her, and Naomi directed her to the Institute and to Martin, who gladly listened to her statement and gave her the resources she needed. A colleague of Dr. Elliot’s confided in him about seeing crazy visions about everything he loved burning down after meeting an odd student and smelling smoke around those things in the waking world, and Dr. Elliot directed him his way, Martin greeting the man with a smile and a cup of tea. Georgie apparently mentioned something on her show about it— _the Magnus Institute is mostly hacks, I think,_ she’d said, which had offended him at the time but Jon assured him was merely an inside joke between the two of them poking fun at each other’s careers, _but if you’ve got a story to tell, and you want someone who will listen to you and believe you, the Head Archivist’s pretty good at that._

And after that, they started getting a pretty steady stream of statement givers, first once every couple weeks, once a week, every few days. People would tell friends, family, coworkers who went through something, _Hey, I went through something, too. Why don’t you go talk to the Magnus Institute?_ And then those people would tell others, who told others, on and on. A lot of them were fake, but the people giving them were clearly genuinely afraid, so Martin still listened to them and provided them slightly-modified advice and gave them a slightly-modified list of resources. But a good number of them were real, as well, and Martin made sure to pay extra attention to those, to have his assistants research them and to check in on them, after.

They were _exhausting,_ though, in ways that Martin couldn’t fully articulate or comprehend. He didn’t know why listening to people tell their stories took so much out of him, but—well, it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. He could have some of them talk to the assistants, instead, but they had come to get _his_ help, and he couldn’t just wave them off because of a little bit of tiredness. He probably just wasn’t getting as much sleep. Otherwise, though, he was perfectly content. He was in a job where he could really _help_ people, and he had _friends_ (and maybe—if he wasn’t reading too much into his interactions with Jon—something more?), and even if things with the worms were getting tense, life was good.

(Elias Bouchard, in his office, smiled. This was an unforeseen development, but not an unwelcome one in the slightest. If his new Head Archivist’s generous nature led to him developing faster than normal, well—who was he to complain?)

And then Jane Prentiss happened. And then they found out Gertrude Robinson was murdered. And then everything went wrong.

The police were technically handling Gertrude’s case, but Martin felt like a little of his own investigation couldn’t hurt things. After all, it was the woman who held his own position before him who was killed. He had a right to be concerned. (The need to know burned through him badly, in a way that was almost a little frightening to think about. But the idea of _not_ knowing frightened him more, so he didn’t think about it.)

It didn’t take much research into Gertrude Robinson to realize what had been covered up, because it was less that things had been covered up and more that no one had bothered to look. Martin had assumed that the reason there were no assistants in the archives was that they had quit, or else been transferred when Gertrude went missing. (When she _died.)_ But it turns out most of them had disappeared or died, and only one of them had successfully quit, and even _he_ disappeared not long after.

So apparently, everyone who worked for the Head Archivist disappeared or died. Martin wished he’d read the fine print on his contract. He couldn’t quit now—even if it put him in danger, he was really helping people, and he wanted to keep doing that until it killed him—but he couldn’t stomach the thought of his friends being in danger. He tried to fire them, but apparently, Elias told him, he couldn’t just _fire_ his whole department, honestly, Martin, what are you thinking?

Which seemed like bull, if you asked him. What was the point of being department head if you couldn’t fire all your subordinates and take on all the responsibility and danger of the Archives onto yourself? Seemed like a bad deal.

So instead Martin just tried to… gently pull away. It was easier than he thought. The Archives (he didn’t seem to notice how he always capitalized that in his head now, for some reason) were always quiet nowadays; he would’ve expected the trauma of almost being killed by worms to bring them together, but instead, things seemed more strained than ever. Something felt… wrong. Things felt quieter than normal, Martin had vague memories of Tim usually filling the space with laughter and chatter and bringing up the usually dark mood of the archives—but no, that had to be wrong, didn’t it? Tim was always so quiet and reserved. So why did it feel like, when they had used to be friends, Tim was the one who initiated everything?

And then it hit Martin. They _used to be_ friends. He remembered going out for Friday night drinks with his coworkers, getting lunch with them, bringing them tea and texting them. But that didn’t really… happen, anymore. Tim was as quiet and reserved as he had always been _(must_ have always been, jeez, was he going crazy?). Sasha was worried, he knew, but the idea of her just disappearing without a trace—the memories of the _two weeks_ she had been gone and he _hadn’t even noticed_ —made him so upset he could hardly stand to look at her. It was safer, for him to isolate himself.

And Jon…

Jon wasn’t all right. He’d always been kind of aloof, skeptical and uncertain, critical in a way that had made Martin squirm at first. But over the months they had gotten him to open up, get closer, and he wasn’t such a robot inside, even if he was a workaholic to his core. Martin had fussed over him as they all grew more and more nervous about the worms, Jon spending more time in the Institute trying to find out more about them; he made him take breaks and go home, fussed over his well-being, but Jon’s desire to keep _working,_ no matter what, was familiar. They’d spent plenty of late nights together in the archives, slowly opening up to one another. Martin felt like, given another few weeks, he might have even gotten up the courage to ask Jon out on a date.

But now it was like they were strangers again. Martin knew he was partially at fault, the way he was trying to isolate himself for their own safety. But Jon was… getting worse. It was almost as if he was the one whose predecessor had been murdered, with how paranoid he’d been acting. (His predecessors _were_ murdered, or worse, Martin remembered with a twist in his gut, thinking about the missing archival assistants, it was just that no one was talking about them.) What had been a close friendship dissolved in a matter of weeks, until Martin looked at Jon and felt like he didn’t know who he was looking at anymore. The Archives were falling apart.

He saw fog at the corner of his vision, even on sunny days. So he reached out to Naomi Herne, to Percy Grace and Steven Pritchett and other statement-givers who’d told him about fog and loneliness of some kind or another, and asked them what they’d think about making a support group for people who had gone through something similar. Most of them responded positively in some way, so Martin began step two of his little network. He started connecting them to each other, getting people in contact with one another who he thought could help, facilitating support groups for people who had gone through similar things. (And he started to notice patterns in the statements, as he did. A few themes that appeared again and again. Maybe everything wasn’t so scattered as he’d once thought.)

He kept taking live statements, and reading old ones, going through them at an increasing pace in order to have excuses to close his office door and not see Sasha or Jon or Tim out in the assistants’ bullpen. Somewhere along the line he stopped being exhausted after statements, and instead started feeling exhausted _until_ he read or heard one. Sasha grew more and more worried and Jon pulled further and further away and Tim remained a pleasant distance that he’d always had—that felt strange and wrong—that _grated_ at his mind for reasons he couldn’t understand. He pulled away from his assistants and stopped talking to Melanie and orchestrated his network of statement-givers and drew connections between things he read in statements and ignored the strange buzz he felt under his tongue when he asked questions and he was _worn out._ He was worn out and alone.

But things would be all right. He just had to keep balancing things. He could do that. He could pretend things were okay. Martin was good at that.

Until, rather abruptly, he couldn’t.

It was a late night in the Archives, one of many, holed up in his office recording statements because if he stopped moving he was going to go insane. Once upon a time he would’ve spent these nights out in the bullpen with Jon, who he knew was still here, reading in a quiet voice so as not to disturb Jon as he researched, not talking to each other much, just quiet company. Eventually he would pull Jon away to get some late dinner, and then send him home, because without Martin’s intervention he would (and has) spend the night in the Archives.

But tonight, as it had been for a while, they spent it locked up separately, Martin in his office and Jon in the document storage room. They probably wouldn’t see each other all night.

It was for the best, Martin reminded himself, ignoring the pang in his chest as he thought of Jon staying up all night. He wanted to help Jon, to get him help for his paranoia and talk to him and get him to trust him again. But everyone around Gertrude had died. Sasha already nearly had, they _all_ already nearly had, the matching worm scars he and Jon wore reminded him. So the best way to help him was just to—let him be.

Maybe he’d mention something to Georgie.

Maybe not.

Normally, they wouldn’t see each other all night, but tonight was apparently not normal, because when Martin slipped out for a late-night tea break, he found, impossibly, Jon already in the break room. Apparently even he couldn’t ignore hunger forever; he was eating some cold pasta at midnight, still scowling at his notes. He looked up in suspicion as Martin entered, and Martin felt his eyes on him as he gave Jon a small wave and smaller smile before turning to fill the kettle.

Things were quiet for a moment, before abruptly, Jon broke the uneasy silence. “Martin,” he said, and Martin jolted at his name. “Why…” He paused, apparently deciding if he really wanted to ask it. “Why did you start working at the Institute?”

Martin paused before answering to turn the kettle on. “Hm,” he said. “Well. Honestly? Mostly I just needed money. And there isn’t…” He hesitated, adding with a laugh, “There isn’t a lot else you can do with a parapsychology degree, right?” He assumed. Not like he actually had one.

He didn’t turn to look at Jon, but he felt Jon’s eyes still tracking him, could picture their suspicious squint. “Hmm,” Jon said noncommittally. “...Why the library, then? Why not research? You’ve got a master’s, after all. Probably more qualified for it than a lot of the actual researchers.”

Jon was really doing a very bad job of hiding the fact that this was an interrogation, Martin reflected. No warming him up with small talk at all. He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I just always felt more at home in the library. Too much pressure, research. In the library, there’s just books.”

“Hmm,” Jon said again, and then he was silent.

Martin flicked off the kettle as it came to a boil, poured his tea. “What about you?” he asked.

“Hm?”

Martin hardly registered the familiar buzz on his tongue as he asked, “Why did you join the Institute?” until after it was out of his mouth. He expected Jon to dodge the question, give a non-answer.

He didn’t expect Jon to say, “I watched someone get killed by a giant spider from a book when I was a child. I needed to know more.”

Martin finally whirled around to look at Jon, at that, and it looked like Jon didn’t expect Jon to say that, either—he looked confused and angry, suspicious. Martin felt guilty, though he didn’t quite know why. (He knew. Didn’t want to acknowledge it.) “Why did I…” Jon mumbled under his breath.

“Do…” Martin swallowed thickly, his voice weak. “Do you want to… talk about it?”

“No,” Jon said immediately.

But even as he was saying no, Martin didn’t really hear it. He was struck, abruptly, with a need to know the story so hard his knees were shaking. His mind told him it’d been nearly two weeks since his last live statement, though he didn’t know why that detail was necessary. He felt hungry all of a sudden. Famished, in fact.

“Jon,” the Archivist asked, “what happened when you were a child?”

“I was eight years old when my grandmother gave me the book,” Jon began, hardly a breath between the question and his answer.

And he told him.

When he was done, Martin felt both horrified at himself, and terribly, horribly sated, like some hunger had been quelled. Jon’s expression, as he spoke, slowly grew more and more upset, and Martin had a feeling it wasn’t just because of the story getting worse. Jon didn’t want to tell him this. Martin didn’t want to hear it. (Except for the large part of him that, desperately, did.)

There was silence, after he finished, where they just stared at each other, eyes wide.

“Jon,” Martin started, voice hoarse, “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t…” Except he did, didn’t he? He asked. He wanted to _know._ It was just that, now, he didn’t know if the knowledge was worth it. 

Abruptly, Jon stood, his expression angrier than Martin had ever seen it. “I don’t want to hear it, Martin,” he said, voice clipped and tight. He picked up his notebook, and cut Martin off as he opened his mouth to respond. _“Don’t speak.”_

So Martin shut up, and watched Jon go, and he sat in quiet self-loathing until he could see the small light in document storage shut off and Jon, presumably, went to sleep on the cot. Then he stood up and left the Institute and went home, not registering the trip at all. He laid down and closed his eyes. Even though he didn’t really feel the need to sleep. Not after a statement like that, so _satisfying._

He hated himself more at the thought.

It was only when he got to the Institute the next day that he realized he’d never bothered to get his tea. The mug sat on the counter, ice-cold, teabag still sitting in it. Forgotten.

The mood in the Archives after that night was tense, to say the least. Jon pulled further into his shell, lashing out at him and Sasha and Tim. Martin shut himself away in his office, lest he risk doing that again, that gross invasion of his friends’ (coworkers’?) privacy. Sasha tried reaching out to them both, but Jon was openly hostile and Martin remained politely distant. Tim remained as far away as he ever was. (It was wrong.)

And Martin had to face the fact that he might be becoming a monster.

(Becoming? He already was. He couldn’t get the look on Jon’s face out of his mind as Martin invaded every bit of privacy he had without a second thought. As Martin _enjoyed_ it.)

It was one thing when this—this—whatever it was, this… _truth compulsion_ thing he was able to do, was being used to help others. When it was only used in the setting of a statement. (Well. A freely-given statement.) But to use it like this, to hurt his friend—Martin didn’t know what was happening to him.

He couldn’t even try to go cold-turkey on the statements, see if that stopped this… whatever it was. Not when at least once a week someone was coming in to spill their life story and relying on Martin to help them. God, was this why Gertrude had people write their statements down? Did that make it better? Martin was tempted, but—well. He still wanted to help people. Maybe if he helped enough people, it would make up for what he had done to Jon.

(A not-so-small part of his mind wanted to keep taking statements because… it just wanted to. Martin ignored it.)

So he just… threw himself into work more. Taking statements, working with past statement givers. There was a pretty good support network going, now. Martin almost didn’t need to be involved, aside from sending new statement givers to people he knew could help.

If it weren’t for the fact that he needed to keep taking statements, Martin could almost just… disappear.

Maybe it would be better, if he let himself get lost in the fog that crept up on his vision all the time now. Maybe he _was_ a monster, and if he left, got lost in the loneliness, the world would be a better place for it.

But the curiosity, the need to _know,_ to keep taking statements, it had rooted itself too deeply by now, and he couldn’t let the fog take him. Not until he had figured it out. (Figured what out? Everything, maybe.)

No matter how lonely he got.

Sasha knocked on his office door one day, just after five. Not that Martin really kept track of time—he rarely left at five anymore unless he had a meeting with some of the past statement givers, usually Naomi Herne and the other lonely-fog survivors. But it was late enough that Sasha was about ready to leave, wearing her coat and holding her bag.

“Martin,” she said, “let’s get coffee.” Her tone held no room for protest.

Martin tried, anyway, but still found himself being shepherded out the door towards the coffeeshop near the Institute. Twenty minutes later he was seated across from Sasha in a small, cozy cafe, with very little memory of how he got there, a hot tea in front of him and a mocha in front of her.

“S-so,” he said, trying not to sound as nervous as he was. “Why–” He cut himself off abruptly, almost biting his tongue. No questions. He doesn’t want another Jon. “...I’m wondering what you needed me for.”

“To be honest, Martin,” Sasha said, “I’m worried about you.” Yeah, that was about what he expected. “I’m worried about all of you, really. Jon’s gotten so hostile and Tim is—well, he’s Tim. And you’re just…” She shook her head. “You’ve been pulling away, since Prentiss. And then last Tuesday, did… I feel like something happened, overnight. Between you and Jon Are you all right?”

“I’m…” Martin put on his most convincing face. “I’m fine, Sasha. Thank you for worrying, but I just—I’ve just got a lot of work to do.” 

“And I don’t doubt that,” Sasha said. “I’ve seen how many statement givers come in, we’re all up to our necks researching them. But… This seems… beyond that, somehow.” Her brows furrowed. “...Is it… I’ve been wondering for a while, but…”

Martin raised an eyebrow, silently urging her to continue.

“I… I know something about you,” she said, and Martin felt his breath go shallow. Did she know he was becoming a monster? Did she know about what he did to Jon?

“What is it?” he blurted, and winced visibly as soon as the question left his lips, the buzz flittering around his words.

Sasha answered, immediately, compelled, “I know about your CV. I—I was afraid you were trying to pull away or work yourself too hard because of—I don’t know, you were afraid of someone finding out, or something.”

Martin just… stared at her for a moment. And he started to laugh. In everything that had been going on, he’d forgotten about that. It felt like a million years ago that he’d been paranoid of his every move as Head Archivist, convinced that one slip-up would get him exposed and fired. It felt like a problem from an entirely different world, of an entirely different Martin. God, did he wish he could be that Martin, though.

“...Martin?” Sasha said, worried.

“No, it’s…” He got ahold of himself, shaking his head. “It’s not that, Sasha. I—I mean, yes, I did—I did fake my CV, and you should have gotten the position, probably, and I’m sorry about that, that’s a conversation that’s _really_ long overdue especially if you already knew, but… but I think all our problems are a lot bigger than that.”

Sasha’s brows furrowed, and she frowned. “Then—is… is there something else going on? Is, is there something else trying to attack the Institute? Like Prentiss?”

Martin hesitated. “No. Well, not that I know of, at least. But I… I don’t want you to get involved. You could get hurt.”

At this, her expression turned a bit annoyed. “Martin Blackwood,” she said. “I’m a grown woman. If I wasn’t okay with this being dangerous, I would have quit after Prentiss attacked the Institute. Hell, I would have quit after she attacked _my own flat._ You don’t need to—to protect me.”

“But I do,” he burst out. “Because—because _all_ of Gertrude Robinson’s assistants died or, or disappeared, and you all almost died already, and—and—and I might be the only one who _can_ protect you, or else, I’m the cause of the danger and it’s best you just leave, and, and…”

He trailed off as Sasha placed a hand on his, reassuring. Abruptly, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him. Maybe not since the paramedics after Prentiss. God, he was pathetic.

“Martin,” she was saying. “I know you want to protect us. But… Me and Jon, and Tim, we’re in this for the long haul. We’re not going to abandon you to… to all this, worms and distortions and whatever else scary thing is going on, just because it might be dangerous, all right? We’ve all made our choices.”

Martin stared at her, and realized his face was wet. He was crying. He was crying? Why was he…?

“Oh, Martin,” Sasha said, her voice so gentle it only made another sob come out. “We just want to help you. But we can’t help you unless you tell us what’s going on.”

Martin swallowed thickly, pulled his hand away from hers to grab a napkin and wipe his face off. His breaths were shuddering as he struggled to regain his composure, but Sasha just waited patiently.

He had to do it alone… right? It was safer that way.

But Sasha was right, too. She’d made her choice. If she didn’t want this, she wouldn’t be here. Maybe he should trust her?

But if she died, and it was all his fault–

...That was a bridge they could cross when they came to it. _If_ they came to it. Martin realized, suddenly, that he didn’t _want_ to do this alone anymore. Not now that he didn’t have to.

He took one last, shaking, deep breath, and said, “I think I’m turning into a monster.”

And he told her.

And then… things were bearable again.

Jon still didn’t look him in the eye, but Martin supposed he couldn’t fault him for that. Tim… didn’t change much. The more he didn’t change, the more Martin became suspicious, the more the wrongness of him grated in his mind. He felt like he knew what was wrong, like it was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite reach it.

But Sasha, Sasha was there for him again. Her relentless curiosity and determination to both help him with his work and pull him out of it when he went too deep in. She took his revelation surprisingly well, determined to help him find out a way to stop whatever was happening to him, or at least understand it. It was… nice, to have someone he could trust again, more than just a passing acquaintance like Naomi or the other statement-givers, or a friend who he loved but couldn’t tell the whole truth to, like Melanie. (He was being so unfair to Melanie, but he couldn’t just tell her the truth. That wouldn’t be fair to her, either.) Someone who knew everything. And it was Sasha, who Martin had always secretly liked the best of his assistants (as least, disregarding his crush on Jon), with her cleverness and creative thinking and willingness to help him when he didn’t quite know what he was doing.

Between the two of them, they worked out some of his… _powers,_ for lack of a better word, and his limitations. Martin could basically make anyone say anything, when he asked a question, though he was obviously wary of making Sasha say anything she _really_ didn’t want to say, so they didn’t test it too much. And as time passed, he started to be able to… _Know_ things, on occasion, things he shouldn’t have been able to know otherwise. He didn’t think he was able to control that one, though. It seemed to just happen.

On the other hand, they figured out definitively that he needed statements. They tried to go cold-turkey, had Sasha collect statements in writing for a few weeks while he stopped recording the written ones, but he could only last a month, getting progressively weaker and sicker, before a close call where he almost accosted a stranger in the grocery store for their statement made them revise the experiment. For another three weeks after that, he could survive on written statements, but it quickly became clear that even those would be stale after a while. Eventually they decided it was just best to let him keep taking live statements, since he still liked getting to help people.

Time passed, like that. Jon got a little better, over time; he was still clearly suspicious of Martin and Sasha, but he could stand to be in the same room as Martin again, which was nice. Even with how paranoid he’d been lately, and how distant the two of them had been, Martin’s crush on him hadn’t faded, which only made the guilt he felt about what he’d done worse. Martin wanted them to be friends again, but he wasn’t sure they could be. Maybe if he told Jon everything, but—well, the way he was right now, Jon was just as likely to take it as proof that Martin was out to kill him, so it was best not to. Probably.

Tim remained frustratingly distant, and while Jon was around more now, he still didn’t trust them, so mostly, Sasha and Martin worked on this alone. They made slow progress, figuring out the broad strokes of what was happening to him, but it was progress. And Martin wasn’t alone anymore. The fog was fading at last. He didn’t know if he could trust Sasha with everything, but he could trust her with some things. He still didn’t want her to get hurt, but now that he had a better handle on what he was, he was fairly certain he could avoid hurting her. Just… don’t ask questions. Easier said than done, a little, but she never said anything about his awkward rephrasing of questions into statements, to let her answer on her own. Jon noticed it, he was sure, but he didn’t say anything, either. (He didn’t say much of anything at all to Martin, nowadays.) Tim he didn’t know. Tim had always been a bit of an enigma. (Hadn’t he?)

It was the beginning of February when Charlie Carlisle came to give Martin their statement. It was an event that happened a long time ago, back when they were in secondary school, in 2010 or so, they said, but it had haunted them to this day. And more than that, it was a pattern that was familiar to Martin, from other statements he’d read. The statement went something like this:

Charlie recalled having a friend at their church, Ella. Ella was sweet and kind and overeager, with a gap between her two front teeth that she was self-conscious about but Charlie always felt was kind of charming. She was much more of a people-person than Charlie was, so Charlie usually hid out behind her in their youth group so they didn’t have to talk. Charlie was not very personable, but Ella liked them anyway. They’d been friends since they were kids, and Charlie didn’t know what they would do at church without her, since it had always been uncomfortable to them for reasons they now knew were related to their gender identity but had no words for at the time. No matter how uncomfortable they got, though, Ella always helped them feel at home.

Then one day, Ella stopped coming to youth group. In her place was a tall, stern-looking girl with perfectly straight teeth, who was quiet and stood in the back and didn’t speak unless spoken to, and when she did it was a quiet, measured voice. She was nothing like Ella, Charlie emphasized, there was no way anyone could mistake them for the same person.

Charlie asked someone, once, who the new girl was, gesturing at this newcomer but they looked at them like they were crazy. “New kid?” they had asked. Charlie had clarified who they meant. “Are you kidding?” they had said. “That’s Ella. Your best friend?”

At first they thought there was a prank being pulled on them, but every person they talked to, even the youth pastor, seemed convinced that this not-Ella had always been Ella, had always been there. Even their parents, who had seen Ella hundreds of times over the years, just asked if they were feeling all right.

Eventually Charlie began to feel like maybe they were the crazy one. Maybe they had been misremembering Ella all this time. Maybe this was who she had really been. Charlie let themselves get taken out of the youth group and sent to a few therapists, none of whom could figure out what was wrong with them.

But then Charlie found something. An old tape recorder, a toy one, with a tape still inside of it; they remembered using it with Ella as a child, the gap-toothed, smiling Ella in their mind, making up songs and pretending they were famous pop stars together. On a whim, they played the tape, expecting Ella’s voice to be changed to this new, maybe-real Ella, the one everyone else seemed to remember, the one they couldn’t.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t that Ella’s cold, quiet voice at all. Even accounting for the years between the recording and the present, there was _no way_ you could mistake the two. No, the voice was exactly as Charlie remembered it, exactly how they had been told they were _wrong._

Ella _had_ been replaced. And Charlie didn’t do anything about it.

Immediately they ran to Ella’s house, not even pausing to say goodbye to their parents or grab their bike, just running as fast as they could. Ella didn’t live too far.

When they reached her house, they froze. There was a van outside, Beacon and Hope Deliveries, or something like that—maybe Breekon? Breakom? It was a long time ago. Two deliverymen were loading something, an odd table, into the back of the van.

When Charlie asked what they were doing, they just dismissed them in a pair of obviously-fake Cockney accents and loaded the table. They drove off, and Charlie shook off the odd encounter and banged on the door. But when Ella’s mom opened it, and Charlie asked to see Ella, she said Ella wasn’t home. She’d gone out, she said, and she didn’t know when she’d be back, so why don’t you come back tomorrow?

Charlie nodded and left. She never saw Ella again.

Either one.

When Charlie was done with their statement, Martin gave them his usual support spiel, about believing them, providing his resources, but his mind was elsewhere. It sounded… so familiar. And not just because of how reminiscent it was to a few other statements he’d read recently. It was almost achingly familiar, something behind his eyes itching angrily at it.

“Just one question,” he said, digging around in his desk. He knew there was a photo album of all the things in Artifact Storage that allowed themselves to be photographed, somewhere—he’d requested it a while ago, thinking it might help in situations like this. There it was. Martin flipped through it until he found what he was looking for—that table with the web design on it, the one that had been delivered recently. By Breekon and Hope, no less. “...The table they were loading, those deliverymen—did it look like this?”

Charlie stiffened. “I—I think so?” they said. “It was a long time ago, but—but it was a pretty distinctive table, so I… I think so.”

Martin nodded to himself. “In that case,” he said, “you’ll be pleased to know that, if that not-Ella creature really was somehow tied to the table, which I think it might have been, we have it locked up now. It… It can’t hurt anyone else.”

Charlie sank in relief. “...Thank you,” they said quietly. “I know it’s probably too late to get Ella back, but… but I don’t want to think of anyone else getting replaced like that.”

Martin smiled gently at them. “I’m glad to help, in that case,” he said. “Let me walk you out?”

They nodded, and Martin walked them to the front entrance. As he reentered the Archives, he waved goodbye to Tim, who was heading out to lunch with his boyfriend. He smiled pleasantly, but that same wrongness itched behind his eyes.

He wouldn’t connect it to Charlie Carlisle’s statement until a few weeks later, when Georgie Barker came to give her second statement and asked what happened to the Tim that used to work there.

Destroying the table, he realized while hiding from a monster trying to kill him, maybe hadn’t been his best plan. He just thought that maybe it would give him Tim back. Or, well. He hadn’t been thinking. That was rather the point.

The creature that used to be Tim was chasing him through the tunnels now, taunting him. It was wrong. It was all wrong. Martin _itched_ behind his eyes.

He tried to phone Sasha, but there was no service in the tunnels. Of course. There was hardly service in the basement, let alone beneath it. In retrospect, maybe sending her and Jon out to investigate various statements before confronting a creature that ate and replaced his friend without anyone noticing for months was about as dumb as destroying the table in the first place.

And this thing was just… _taunting_ him, in the only voice he remembered as Tim’s. It made him so _angry,_ was the thing. He wasn’t really afraid. He was just _mad._

“It’ll hurt, you know,” the thing was saying. “I’m going to kill you and wear you, just like I did to your friend. And it’ll _hurt._ ” The thing grinned. “It hurt Tim.”

That was about when Martin snapped.

_“SHUT UP!”_

Maybe, in another world, the Archivist was just starting to awaken his powers; they were just barely stirring, and he would need to be saved from the Not-Them by a man with a book. But Martin Blackwood had been the Archivist since he first took Naomi Herne’s statement and decided to reach out and check on her, to make a network that brought in continuous statements like lambs to the slaughter. And maybe he wasn’t the most powerful being in the world, (not yet, at least), but he was powerful enough to take on a creature like this. To Know a creature that relied on not being known.

It giggled as the yell he let out alerted it to his presence, and it was suddenly close, too close. “There you are,” it said. Playfully, it added, “I see you.”

Martin took a deep breath. “No,” the Archivist said, _“I See you.”_

(This was, he would reflect later, the moment he sold his soul for real.)

By the time the thing was done screaming, there was nothing left of it, and Martin was panting heavily on the floor.

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until someone cleared his throat. “Mr. Blackwood?”

Martin whirled around, tense, fists balled. “Who-?”

“I was going to help you,” the unfamiliar old man said, “but it seems like you had that covered, didn’t you?” He tipped his head to one side, looking over Martin critically, like he was evaluating him. “Mr. Blackwood… I think it’s time we talked.”

Things went very quickly after that. Jurgen Leitner _(Jurgen Leitner!)_ followed Martin back to his office, and told him about things he didn’t even want to _think_ about. It was too much. It was all too much.

It was one thing to be aware that he was becoming some kind of truth-compelling, trauma-eating monster. It was another thing entirely to be told it was because he was working in a _temple for a fear god_ that was _grooming him into it._ Martin felt a little faint.

And then in the middle of their conversation, Martin… Felt something. Something was _off,_ he just… knew it, or, or Knew it, somehow. It called to him, something strange in his—in the Institute.

“I…” He hesitated. “I need to go check on something,” he said. “I’ll be right back. _Stay here.”_

He followed the odd thread of thought through the Institute, up into Artifact Storage. It was long after the Institute had closed by this point, but the doors were still unlocked from when he had gone in to destroy the table—God, had that really just been earlier today? He didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going until he found himself standing in front of the remains of the table once more, just that he _needed_ to be there.

And someone else was there, too.

A man, on the floor, groaning and clutching his head. He looked up in concern as Martin approached. “...Martin? Where…” He looked around, still disoriented, before freezing. “The worms-?”

And then Martin Knew. “T-Tim?” It was almost hesitant, like he didn’t want to be proven wrong. It wasn’t the Tim he remembered—that was still the thing that had worn his face; somehow destroying it wasn’t enough to bring back his proper memories—but he Knew, somehow, that it was him. It was really him. Martin gasped and dropped to the ground next to him, giving Tim a grounding hand on his shoulder. “Is—is it really you?”

Tim gave him a confused look, and then an awkward laugh. “Of course,” he said. “Who else could it be?”

Martin cried out and scooped Tim in a hug. He didn’t remember, not really, but he—he recalled bits and pieces. His friendship with Tim, the bond he had with him, it was so clear now how it disappeared overnight when Tim was replaced, so fast he didn’t know how he didn’t question it before. But as soon as this new, old, familiar, unfamiliar Tim was in front of him again, those feelings came back in full force.

Tim was his _friend._ How could he forget that?

“Oof,” Tim said, laughing again. “You all right there, boss?” He looked around. “Are—the worms…? What happened to your face?” 

“I’m fine,” Martin said hysterically. The worms. Tim only remembered up to the worms, there was _so much_ to explain. “I, I’m great, actually. I.” He pulled back. “...It’s—it’s been a lot, Tim. It’s been a long time. I, I need to go finish talking to someone, I—I kind of just walked out on him to find you, but—but I promise, I’ll explain everything.”

Tim looked confused, still uncertain why he was here or what had happened, but nodded seriously. “...All right,” he said. “I trust you, Martin.”

Martin beamed at him. God, he missed him. “Come on,” he said, standing up and holding out a hand to Tim. “Let’s head back to the Archives.”

And then in the Archives there was nothing but blood and the corpse of a man who had promised Martin answers, and a yellow door swinging open across the room, Sasha and Jon stumbling out, disoriented, to the same impossible sight. Jurgen Leitner was dead. Not ten minutes ago they’d been having a conversation, and now he was just. _Dead._ Gone. A cooling body in that nice plush chair he’d gotten brand new for the Archives what seemed like a millennium ago.

“We need to c-call 999,” Martin gasped out. “We need…” 

“We need to get out of here,” Sasha said firmly. She had gathered herself remarkably quickly; whatever was through that door they stepped out of, Jon still seemed to be shaking the effects off. “Martin, what are they going to think when they find a dead body in your office?”

“I’m, I’m not going to go on the run from the police, Sasha–!”

“How do we know he didn’t really _do_ it, Sasha,” Jon hissed.

“Seriously, Jon? You don’t really think _Martin_ of all people could brutally murder a man?” piped up Tim from Martin’s side, his voice cutting with confusion and uncertainty. He clearly didn’t know what was going on, but he was defending Martin anyway. Martin’s heart panged again with regret for not noticing the replacement earlier. He was nothing like Tim; how could he have not noticed?

“Wait, who is–?” Scratch that. How could _no one_ have noticed?

“It’s Tim,” Martin cut Jon off.

“No it’s _not-”_

“You can explain later, Martin,” Sasha said. She sounded remarkably calm, but there was something wild in her eyes. She and Jon were both still swaying on their feet. “For now we need to get somewhere _safe._ Just for now. Just until we can—get an explanation, all right?”

“I,” Martin gasped, still feeling slightly out of breath and dizzy from it all. “I might know somewhere we can go.”

Melanie King was less than impressed when Martin showed up on her doorstep with three coworkers, desperate and afraid and _definitely_ suspicious-sounding.

“Please, Melanie,” Martin said. “I, I know you have no obligation to let me in and I’ve been a really shitty friend in the past few months, but—but—I didn’t know where else to go. Just for a little while.”

Melanie took a deep breath. “...yeah. Yeah, all right, come in.” She stepped aside, shifting the Admiral in her grip, and letting them all file in before closing the door behind her.

 _“Thank_ you, Melanie,” Martin said, lingering to stand by her near the door as she gestured for the others to make themselves comfortable. Sasha sat on the couch, glancing warily at the still-unfamiliar Tim as he flung himself next to her with a grin. Jon perched at the very edge of an armchair, glaring at Martin. “Really. You didn’t have to do this. It means a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “You’d do the same for me, Blackwood. It’s super suspicious and I hope you know that, but. I trust you.” She poked him in the chest as she moved past him to sit on the arm of the couch next to Sasha. “For now.”

“You’d better have a good explanation for all of this, Martin,” Jon said, still glowering. Martin flinched at his suspicion, but the fact that he had come at all instead of calling the police immediately meant that somewhere, he still trusted Martin. And Martin was determined not to squander it.

Any of it. Any of these people who shouldn’t trust him but did, for some godforsaken reason. He looked out over the four of them, taking a deep breath. Sasha looked up at him, encouraging but wary; Melanie, disgruntled but certain; Tim, confused but open; even Jon, suspicious but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, despite all Martin had done to him.

Sasha had told him he didn’t have to do this alone. He guessed he didn’t really believe her until this moment, sitting in front of four people who he would do anything for. Maybe they could help him, too.

“Let me… Where should I start…” There was so much information he’d learned, and they all knew different amounts; Tim cut off during the worm attack, Jon’s scattered findings from his research, Sasha being his confidant, and Melanie, who didn’t even know any of it.

So he decided to start with something none of them knew. He’d fill the rest in on the way.

He took a deep breath, feeling all their eyes on him. For once, it felt like he was the one giving a statement. He wondered if this was how it felt, being in that chair, having the Archivist’s eyes on him. His own gaze, supernatural eye-monster or no, couldn’t be nearly so scrutinous as the gaze of the four people he wanted desperately to trust him. “So there’s these… entities,” he began.

And he told them.

He told them _everything._

When the nightmares started that very same night, he wished he could say he was surprised.

**Author's Note:**

> was gonna let it end fluffy but i couldn't resist on putting that last line in there
> 
> this fic is based on a full au that has been living in my head rent free so if you want to know more about it feel free to ask in the comments! i'm also on tumblr @cordeliastrange :) i'll probably write more in this au in the future since i have a lot of ideas (martin and melanie's past together, how s3 + s4 are different from canon (i'll give you a hint: more spiders), actual jonmartin content, actual jon content for that matter, more sasha martin friendship, the happy ending i will inevitably give this au when canon renders my soul in twain.. a lot of ideas!) but i can't guarantee when i'll get around to it
> 
> anyway hope you enjoyed!! thank you for reading!


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